


Intimate Attentions

by methylviolet10b



Series: Intimate [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes pays particular attentions to Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimate Attentions

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #16: Ablaze.  
> Warnings: I don't know what it says about me that I saw today's picture prompt and immediately thought "Victorian bathtub sex!", but there it is. Nearly plotless SMUT following Intimate Acquaintance, Intimate Observations, and Intimate Interlude. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

JWP #16 picture:  
  
  
 ****

As someone relatively new to intimate relations with another person, I could perhaps be excused in my ignorance of some of the finer details of such a relationship. Indeed, my physical skills as a lover were far inferior to my Watson’s (although I was determined to not let them remain so, and Watson was more than willing to aid my efforts). But that was a matter of practice and effort. The softer skills of intimate relationship, however, were far more difficult for me to understand, much less master. I have had few close friendships in my life, and certainly no relationship as close as the one I now shared with my lover. While I am quite close to my brother Mycroft, I could hardly use that as a model, for we two brothers are far too alike; highly observant and deeply reticent, we neither require nor expect overt expressions of our fraternal regard.  
  
But while I had little experience with it, I was certainly not unaware of all the ways my Watson showed his affection for me outside of our private encounters. He is discreet, and no one who did not know him extremely well would have any cause to suspect that he felt more for me than respect and friendship; but to me, the evidence was everywhere, and unmistakable. I have studied him since the day we became fellow-lodgers. Combine that with his open nature with those he trusts, and my Watson is an open book to me.  
  
For all that, I hardly needed this in-depth knowledge to notice and understand his current restlessness. Several days previously, Watson and I had been trapped in a burning house by a professional arsonist. We escaped, but not entirely unscathed; Watson’s hands suffered both a number of burns and a few gashes from shards of glass. Watson and his attending physician, a well-respected doctor and former client of mine, had both assured me that he would recover fully. But for the time being, Watson was restricted from using his hands any more than absolutely necessary. He was uncomfortable, bored, and sweltering in the unseasonable heat of an October that felt more like August. Our sitting-room felt more like the steam-room at the Turkish Bath, but without the prospect of the cold pool to revive the body once the steam had done its work…  
  
An idea seized me, complete and perfect. I suddenly knew how I might help Watson with his physical ailments and provide an opportunity to demonstrate my own regard for him. I sprang up and left the sitting-room in search of Mrs Hudson, ignoring Watson’s startled query.  
  
I was back within ten minutes, arrangements made and preparations underway. Watson met my reappearance with a half-irritable, half-curious glare. “What sent you out of the room so quickly just now, Holmes?”  
  
“I was suddenly reminded of something I wished to communicate to Mrs Hudson.”  
  
Watson groaned. “I dearly hope you haven’t put her out of humour, or we’ll regret it for a week.”  
  
“No such thing. I believe she was quite pleased with my request.” In fact Mrs Hudson had patted my arm and applauded me for being so kind and thoughtful of the poor injured doctor, so shy and embarrassed about his current inability to tend to himself, and readily agreed to give the servants a half-day and take herself off to her favourite tea-room for the afternoon.  
  
(I strongly suspect that Mrs Hudson is aware of the general change in the relationship between Watson and myself, although not of the specifics. She is sympathetic to our cause, having fond memories of a ‘bachelor uncle’ who treated her well as a child, and will remain discreet as long as we also show discretion. Some of this is speculation, but it is based on a good deal of indirect and anecdotal evidence, and I trust her.)  
  
“You’re looking flushed, Watson,” I continued.  
  
“As observations go, that is hardly up to your usual caliber, Holmes,” Watson retorted. “I am warm, yes, but this is nothing to India and Afghanistan. I will do well enough.”  
  
Typical of Watson, to make light of his discomfort. “But you would not mind an opportunity to cool off?”  
  
Watson looked startled. “Well no, but I hardly think that’s likely.”  
  
“And yet I believe it can be arranged.” I placed a supportive hand under one of his elbows. “Up, Watson, and come with me.”  
  
Curiousity piqued, Watson stood up from the settee with my assistance. Rising from that couch without use of one’s hands is no simple matter, but he mostly managed it on his own, only leaning on me briefly. I led him out of the sitting-room and to the bathing-room down the hall, where Mrs Hudson had already laid out two towels and turned on the tap.  
  
“Holmes!” Watson sounded mildly scandalized as he realized what I intended. “I cannot wet my bandages. And it is the middle of the day.”  
  
“I know,” I replied, unruffled. “Which is why I shall attend to your bathing. And knowing what a modest fellow you are, I had Mrs Hudson send the servants out, along with herself. No one will witness you needing assistance taking a bath.”  
  
He hardly needed my wink to understand my true meeting. “Oh! Oh. Well, that was most kind of her – and of you. But are you sure?”  
  
I snorted. “Don’t speak nonsense, John. “  
  
Watson smiled.  
  
I took my time undressing him. He had insisted on being properly attired this morning, right down to cuffs and collar, despite not being able to manage the fastenings himself. I had helped dress him then, and I enjoyed reversing the process now, slowly exposing his flesh and placing gentle kisses on every inch of exposed skin. Absorbed in my work, I scarcely remembered to turn off the tap in time. I did, however, keep a keen ear out for movement in the rest of the household, and noted with satisfaction the tell-tale sounds that announced each person’s departure from the premises. They were all gone by the time I had stripped my Watson down to his trousers. I did not increase my speed, but took my time divesting him of those as well, caressing and kissing his strong thighs, his sturdy calves. By the time I removed them completely and drew down his drawers, Watson was heavy-lidded and panting. His member sprang free and stood hard and upright, the foreskin drawn well back.  
  
“I trust you have no objections to your bath thus far?” I murmured, giving Watson’s backside a gentle caress.  
  
“I suspect my enjoyment is sufficiently obvious to a man as observant as you are,” Watson panted in reply. I could hear the smile in his voice, although I was unable to see it, preoccupied as I was in saluting the organ straining at attention.  
  
“Good. Now into the bath with you, my dear man.”  
  
Watson looked briefly surprised, but followed my lead willingly enough. I heard his soft sigh as I carefully helped lower him into the bathtub. The water was not cold, but tepid, almost warm, just as one would expect with the temperature as high as it was. It was a perfect contrast to the temperature in the bathroom, refreshing without being shocking.  
  
Once Watson was safely lying in the bathtub with his bandaged hands resting on the edges, well clear of the water, I lost no time in stripping out of my own clothing. Watson eyed me appreciatively. I could guess what he expected, but my intention was to remain focused on him and his own needs, not my own. I knelt by the bathtub and briefly wished I’d thought to place something under my knees, for the tile was quite hard. I dismissed the discomfort as inconsequential and picked up the bar of soap.  
  
I have had many opportunities to observe Watson’s body, but it has never yet lost its fascination for me. The varying textures of his skin; the whorls and patterns of his hair on his arms, legs, and chest; the play of his muscles at rest and in effort; the various scars and marks he wears as evidence of his adventuresome life. All wonderful, all interesting, and all mine, treasure willingly given and cherished. I gently washed every inch of my Watson, admiring anew the riches on display. Only when he was thoroughly clean did I turn my attention to his member, bobbing and nodding stiffly in the water.  
  
Watson blinked dazedly at me when I briefly leaned away from the tub in order to rummage in the pocket of my discarded jacket. “Holmes?”  
  
“Shhh,” I admonished as I fished out the little tin of ointment I had thought to stash away before returning to Watson in the sitting-room. “Just lie back, relax, and let me care for you.”  
  
Watson’s eyes widened briefly, and then he nodded and leaned his head back against the edge of the tub. I kissed his bandaged hands, still safely dry, and then scooped out a dollop of ointment from the tin.  
  
The ointment was not quite as effective in the water as it was under the more usual conditions. I mentally made a note of that, and briefly considered whether I might be able to concoct a salve more suitable for watery conditions in my chemical researches before setting the thought aside for another day. I had far more interesting researches to occupy my attention.  
  
I had stroked Watson to completion before, but never as the sole occupation of the enterprise. Here, in these conditions, I could and did give my undivided attention to every single detail: the way his breath hitched; the additional caressing pressure of the water and the currents stirred up by my rhythmic stripping of his cock; the difference in the way his muscles tightened and shifted in the buoyant medium of the water compared to the surface of a bed (or the floor, or an armchair); the difficulty of determining whether he was close without the usual tell-tale of sweat breaking out on his skin. And his orgasm itself, when it came, was both wonderfully familiar and completely new. The expression of bliss was much as usual, but the great ropy trails of ejaculate as they jetted forth in the water looked quite different, pearlescent and mysterious.  
  
It took longer than usual for Watson to come back to himself afterwards, and when he did, he remained lazily relaxed, satisfied and content and so appealing I could not help myself. I leaned over and kissed him on the tip of his nose.  
  
I pulled back and observed the most remarkable series of fleeting expressions cross Watson’s face before they melted into a happy, surprised, strangely hopeful smile.  When he spoke, his voice was deeper than usual, and soft with affection. “Thank you, Holmes.”  
  
I beamed at him, pleased with the success of my efforts, and equally hopeful that Watson had understood my underlying intent. “It was my pleasure, my dear John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 16, 2015


End file.
